Chapter 4
Evangeline’s mother, Liana, used to wake up every morning before sunrise. She’d put on a pretty flowered robe that Evangeline always thought of as romantic. Then she’d tiptoe delicately down the stairs and quietly slip into the study, where she would sit beside the crackling fireplace and read.
Liana Fox believed in starting the day with a story.
When Evangeline had been little, she would often wake up early as well. Not wanting to miss out on any of the magic with which her mother always seemed to be surrounded, Evangeline would follow her to the study, then curl up in her lap and promptly fall back to sleep.
Eventually, Evangeline grew too old for laps, but she also became better at staying awake.
And so her mother began to read her stories out loud.
Some tales were brief, while others took days or weeks to get through.
One book—a great tome etched in gold foil that came all the way from the Southern Isles—took an entire six months to read.
And when Liana reached the last page of every story, she never said, The end.
Instead, she always turned to Evangeline and asked, What do you suppose happens next?
They live happily ever after, Evangeline usually proclaimed. Most characters, she believed, deserved it after all they’d been through.
Her mother, however, felt differently. She believed most characters would stay happy for now, but not forever.
Then she’d point out things that would certainly work to wreak havoc in their future—the apprentice to the villain who was still alive, the evil stepsister who’d been forgiven but was still out there somewhere waiting to attack once more, the wish that had come true but wasn’t quite paid for, the seed that had been planted but had yet to grow.
So, you think they’re all doomed? Evangeline would ask.
Then her mother would smile, sweet and warm as fresh sugar pie.
Not at all, my precious girl. I think there’s a happy ending for everyone.
But I don’t think these endings always follow the last page of a book, or that everyone is guaranteed to find their happily ever after.
Happy endings can be caught, but they are difficult to hold on to.
They are dreams that want to escape the night.
They are treasure with wings. They are wild, feral, reckless things that need to be constantly chased, or they will certainly run away.
Evangeline had not wanted to believe her mother then, but she believed her now.
Evangeline swore she could hear the pitter-patter of her happy ending running further away from her as she exited LaLa’s flat.
She wanted to chase after it, but for a moment, she just stood there breathing in the cold Northern air and wishing she could curl up on her mother’s lap once more. She still missed her fiercely. She wondered what her mother would have said she should do.
Evangeline had vowed to never open the Valory Arch for Jacks, but LaLa’s words were making her question herself. The Valory does not hold what you think. If I were you, I would open the arch.
It seemed clear to Evangeline that her friend must have believed the version of the story that said the Valory was a magical treasure chest. But even treasures could be dangerous.
And what if LaLa was wrong? There were others, like Apollo’s brother, Tiberius, who had been so determined to keep the Valory Arch locked they’d tried to kill Evangeline—Tiberius had actually tried twice!
But did Tiberius even know what hid on the other side of the arch, or did he just fear it because he chose to believe the version of the story that said it contained an abomination?
Evangeline should have probably been afraid as well, but if she was being honest with herself, it was no longer the unknown contents of the Valory that most frightened her. It was the idea of partnering with Jacks to save Apollo.
Evangeline couldn’t and wouldn’t do that again.
She had never kissed the Prince of Hearts, but she had learned that his bargains were much like his fatal kiss—magical and utterly destructive. She’d make a deal with almost anyone else before entering into another partnership with him.
“Any luck?” Havelock asked when they were safely in the carriage.
Evangeline shook her head. “Maybe we should reconsider telling the new heir about Apollo’s condition to buy us more time to search for a cure. If half the stories about Lucien are true, he may wait to take Apollo’s place as prince.”
Havelock snorted. “No one is as good as they make this Lucien sound. If we tell him the truth, at best he’ll lock Apollo away for his safety and you’ll never see him again. At worst—and far more likely—the new heir will have Apollo killed quietly, and then he’ll do the same to you.”
Evangeline wanted to argue. But she feared Havelock was right. The only certain way to save Apollo was to find a way to wake him up before tomorrow.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. There was no clock in the carriage, but Evangeline could hear time slipping away. Or maybe Time was friends with Jacks and it was taunting her, too.
Wolf Hall, famed royal castle of the Magnificent North, looked part fairytale, part fortress, as if the first king and queen of the North had not agreed on what it should be.
There was a great deal of heavy protective stone, but there were also decorative paints that brightened the doorways, and some of the stones on the ground had intricate carvings of plants and flowers along with reminders of what they were for:
Pegasus Clover—for forgetting
Angelweed—for a good night’s sleep
Gray Silkweed—for sorrow
Spirit Hibiscus—for mourning
Unicorn Holly—for celebrating
Winterberries—for welcoming
When Evangeline had left the castle that morning, boughs of gray silkweed and bouquets of spirit hibiscus had been everywhere, but now they’d been replaced with bright red wreaths of unicorn holly.
Evangeline’s stomach dropped at the sight of it. In the Magnificent North, mourning ended as soon as a new heir was officially named, which was supposed to happen the following day. Although from the altered state of Wolf Hall, it almost felt as if the new heir had already taken Apollo’s place.
Evangeline heard minstrels singing of Lucien the Great, and the servants had done away with their black mourning outfits, replacing them with crisp white aprons.
A few maids around Evangeline’s age had festive winterberry sprigs in their braids and color on their cheeks and lips.
And all of them seemed to be whispering:
“I’ve heard he’s young.…”
“I’ve heard he’s tall.…”
“I’ve heard he’s handsomer than Prince Apollo!”
Evangeline’s stomach cramped into tighter knots with every word. She knew she couldn’t fault these young men and women—people needed reasons to celebrate. Mourning was important, but it couldn’t go on forever.
She just wished she had more time. At least there was still one day left before Lucien actually arrived, even if that didn’t feel like nearly enough.
Evangeline took a shuddering breath as the hallway she and Havelock traveled grew dimmer and cooler. Moments later, they reached the splintered trapdoor that would lead them to Apollo.
It always unnerved Evangeline that the door wasn’t directly watched by a guard, but leaving a lone soldier in the middle of an empty hall seemed too suspicious. Instead, a trusted member of the royal guard waited in the room at the bottom of the stairs.
The small, hidden chamber was nicer than the first time she’d visited.
Evangeline didn’t know if Apollo was aware of his surroundings.
But just in case he was, she’d asked his guards to bring some life into the little room.
The cold floors were covered with thick burgundy carpets, paintings of vibrant forest scenes hung from the stone walls, and a raised four-poster bed with velvet drapes had been brought in.
She would have liked for Apollo to be in his own bedchamber, where a fire could chase away the cold and windows could be cracked when the air grew stale. But as Havelock had reminded her, it was too risky.
At the bottom of the stairs, the waiting guard greeted Evangeline with a bow and then spoke quietly to Havelock, giving her privacy as she approached her prince.
Butterflies moved in her chest. She hoped things would be different today, but thus far her prince appeared exactly the same.
Apollo lay motionless, looking like the ending of a tragic Northern ballad. His heart beat so slowly, and his olive skin was cool to the touch. His brown eyes were open, but his once smoldering gaze was entirely lifeless, flat and vacant as pieces of sea glass.
She leaned closer and smoothed the waves of dark hair from his brow, wishing with her whole heart that he would stir or blink or breathe.
She just wanted a small sign that he would return to life.
“In your letter, you promised you would always try. Please try to come back to me,” she whispered, tilting her face toward his.
She didn’t enjoy touching him when he was so lifeless. But Evangeline remembered that when she’d been stone, she’d desperately longed for another person’s touch. Which was one thing she could give Apollo.
She cupped his waxy cheek and pressed a kiss to his unmoving lips. His mouth was soft, but it tasted wrong, like unhappy endings and hexes, and, as always, he didn’t stir.
“I don’t understand why you do this every day.” Jacks’s indolent voice carried through the chamber.
Evangeline felt it rush over her skin, a slow fire that made the broken heart scar on her wrist burn like a brand.
She tried to ignore both the scar and Jacks.
She tried not to turn, not to look or acknowledge his appearance, but it probably would seem more suspect if she continued to kiss Apollo’s unmoving lips.
Slowly, she straightened, pretending that every inch of her skin wasn’t prickling like her scar as Jacks swaggered forward.